by John Jakes
“Pictures from home?”
“Yes, sir. They were taken at a barbecue in honor of my cousin Ashton’s wedding anniversary. Most of these people are from nearby plantations.”
To test the visitor, he handed over one of the photographs. He pointed to a stern, bearded face and said carefully, “That’s my cousin Orry Main. He encouraged me to go to the Academy. He went there himself. About the time you did, I think.”
Bent pressed his lips together. He studied the bearded face, but Charles saw no flicker of response. The man was good at dissembling—something else that made him dangerous.
“I have a hazy recollection of a cadet named Orry,” Bent remarked. “I hardly knew him. Even in those days, Yankees and Southern boys didn’t mingle a great deal.”
The captain started to return the picture, then gave it a second scrutiny. He tapped the image of a dark-haired woman standing at the edge of the group. She had a rigid look, a certain glazed quality in her wide eyes. Yet he found her breathtaking.
“What a beautiful creature. There’s something exotic about her.”
Why the devil was the captain interested in Madeline LaMotte? Charles asked himself. Why was he here at all?
“She’s a Creole, from New Orleans.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
Bent wondered about the woman’s connection with the Mains. Was she a relative by marriage or merely a neighbor? But he put a rein on his curiosity; if he questioned Charles further, he might somehow slip and reveal his true feelings about Orry. He stared at the lovely face a few seconds longer, then released the photograph.
Charles cleared the other daguerreotypes from the chair, and Bent sat down. His eyes fixed on the younger man. “I’ve wanted to call on you for some time, Lieutenant. To express my thanks for your discretion these past months.”
Charles shrugged, as if to say the captain should have expected nothing else.
“But silence is essentially negative,” Bent continued. “I’ve been anxious to put our relationship on a positive footing. In the future I would like to count on your friendship.”
My silence, Charles thought. He’s worried. He wants a promise that I’ll continue to protect him. But Charles wondered if that was the whole explanation.
Bent peered at him in a curiously intense way. He licked his upper lip, then added: “Naturally, you can count on mine.”
Charles didn’t like the implications of the remark, the tone of which was far too friendly for comfort. Where beneath Bent’s smarmy cordiality did the trap lie? He couldn’t tell, and the uncertainty lent a slight nervousness to his reply:
“The past is gone, Captain. I have no intention of bringing it up again.”
“Good. Good! Then we can truly be friends. I have influential contacts in the War Department. Throughout Washington, in fact. They’ve helped my career, and they could help yours.”
Orry had explained fully how Bent succeeded in spite of a poor record. Influence. Charles resented the captain’s thinking that he’d be willing to take the same route.
“Thank you, sir, but I really prefer to get ahead on my own.”
Bent jumped up. Spots of color appeared in his cheeks. “A chap can always use help, Charles—” Quickly he checked himself. That had been too angry by half. But he couldn’t help it. The tall, superbly built young officer repelled Bent because he was a Main and a Southerner. Yet at the same time Charles attracted him. So much so that, after weeks of indecision, he had finally drunk enough whiskey to generate the Dutch courage he needed to make this overture.
Had Charles caught a whiff of the spirits? Bent hoped not. He tried to smile.
“I will say you require less help than most. For one thing, you’re the very picture of a soldier.” Suddenly dizzy with excitement, he let his emotions carry him on; he touched Charles’s forearm. “You are an exceptionally handsome young man.”
Gently, but with firmness, Charles withdrew his arm.
“Sir, you’d better leave.”
“Please don’t take that tone. Brother officers should give one another aid and comfort, especially in a lonely, godforsaken place like thi—“
“Captain, get out before I pitch you through that window.”
Livid, Bent jammed his hat on his head. He slammed the door behind him. His cheeks were burning.
A coyote barked as he hurried away through the spring dark, wanting to do murder. One day, by God, he would.
Charles had thought himself beyond shock where Bent was concerned. How wrong he had been.
What had just happened did more than confirm rumors about the captain’s sexual predilections. It demonstrated that Bent’s strange appetites lived side by side with his hatreds, and depending upon the mood of the moment—and how much he had imbibed—sometimes one aspect or the other dominated. The realization put a last daub of nastiness on the picture of madness that Charles carried in his imagination.
His lamp-lit room had suddenly grown confining. He flung on his best hickory shirt, stuffed it into his pants, and tramped to the stable to see to his horse. The camp’s night sounds—sentries calling the hour and the “all’s well,” an owl hooting above the murmur of the spring wind—soothed his nerves and settled him down.
Outside the stable he halted and gazed at the stars. He inhaled the yeasty odors of hay, dung, and horseflesh, and immediately felt better, cleansed. He would forever associate those smells with the Army and with Texas—both of which he had come to love.
Thinking of Bent again, he was unexpectedly touched with pity. What must it be like to inhabit that lumbering body, with little worms forever gnawing at sanity from the corners of the mind? The pity intensified—but then his own stern and silent warning cut through:
Better not feel too sorry for a man who’d like to kill you when he’s sober.
That threw it back into proper perspective. Charles knew he must continue to be wary until the day when the inevitable Army transfer separated him from the captain. That would happen—and it was something to look forward to, wasn’t it? He drew another deep breath, savoring the sweet smells of the Texas night. He was whistling as he strode into the stable.
50
ORRY WATCHED SECESSION FEVER spread like an epidemic that summer and fall. Huntoon traveled all over South Carolina and into neighboring states, addressing crowds at churches, barbecues, meeting halls. He solicited memberships for the African Labor Supply Association, dedicated to reestablishment of the slave trade. He continued to advocate a separate Southern government, citing all sorts of reasons, from Seward’s “irrepressible conflict” to the arguments culled from Hinton Helper’s little book, which of course he never mentioned by name.
Orry admired his brother-in-law’s energy, if not his views. He admired Ashton’s energy, too; she went everywhere with her husband.
During the autumn, Orry took note of an interesting and perhaps significant contrast. Up in Columbia, State Senator Wade Hampton addressed the legislature and pleaded for preservation of the Union. He also argued against the resumption of the slave trade. His remarks were widely reported and almost universally scorned by the state’s plantation aristocracy. Whatever personal popularity he possessed among his peers vanished overnight, while Huntoon’s continued to increase.
Cooper was dividing his time between the affairs of the Democratic party and the shipyard on James Island. He said construction of the huge Star of Carolina would begin by the first of the year. Orry decided to carry that news to George in person. He missed his best friend and was eager to see him again.
When Brett learned of the proposed trip, she begged Orry to take her along. She wanted to go on from Pennsylvania to St. Louis, where her brother could chaperone her visit with Billy. Orry didn’t relish such a long journey, but he recognized that Brett was lonesome for her young man. He gave in with only a little argument.
They hadn’t gone far before he was regretting his decision to travel. In North Carolina, where they changed trains for the first
time, he asked the depot agent for a timetable.
“Ain’t got any,” the agent said, in the nasal twang Orry associated with the hill folk of the state.
“Then can you at least tell me when our train is scheduled to arrive in—?” He didn’t bother to finish. The agent had turned away behind the wicket.
Orry walked to the bench where Brett was seated. “They don’t seem to like questions here. Or maybe it’s South Carolinians they don’t like.” There were many anti-slavery men in North Carolina; the agent had probably identified Orry’s accent.
On the next leg of their journey, a Negro porter—a freedman—contrived to drop one of Brett’s portmanteaus, the one she had asked him to handle with special care. It contained some fragile gifts they were taking to Lehigh Station. The mishap occurred while the Negro was lifting the portmanteau from an overhead rack. Close to tears, Brett unwrapped a blown-glass pelican she had bought for Constance. The ornament was in three pieces.
“Sure am sorry, ma’am,” the porter said. Orry thought he detected a malicious gleam in the man’s eye.
At Petersburg, Virginia, a new conductor came on board. Orry showed his tickets, which were stamped with the seal of the issuing railroad in Charleston. The conductor’s manner grew officious. “Change in Washington, then Baltimore,” he said in a voice that suggested New England origins. -
“Thank you,” Orry said. “We have seven pieces of luggage. Will I be able to find a baggage man at the Washington depot?”
“Afraid I couldn’t say. I have nothing to do with porters. Mebbe you should have brought one of your nigger slaves.”
Orry uncoiled his long frame and stood. He had a good three inches on the conductor, whose attitude immediately became less truculent. “I resent your rudeness,” Orry said. “I don’t believe I’ve done anything to justify it”—he waved the ticket—“unless you consider coming from the South to be an offense.”
“Please, Orry,” Brett whispered. “Let’s not have a scene.”
The conductor took the opportunity to break away. “I’ll send the car porter,” he called as he disappeared through the door at the end of the first-class coach.
They never saw him again. Or the porter, either.
Rolling toward Richmond through the fall sunshine, the train lurched from side to side. Orry stared out the dirty window. “Why are we having so blasted much trouble? Am I doing something to invite it?”
Brett closed her copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the year’s fastest selling book. Giving her brother a melancholy look, she said, “No—unless it’s speaking with a Carolina accent.”
“You sure I haven’t come down with some kind of persecution fixation?”
She shook her head. “I’ve noticed a definite change in the way we’re treated. It’s not at all like the treatment we used to get in Newport. Then, people were friendly. They aren’t any longer.”
“But Virginia and North Carolina are the South!”
“Not the deep South. The cotton South. There are a lot of men and women in both states who are more Yankee than Southern. That’s the difference.”
She resumed her reading. The antagonism was startling to him; he found himself resenting it strongly. His dark mood was still with him when they arrived in Baltimore.
From Camden Street they had to transfer to the depot of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore line. Brett enjoyed the ride by horse car, but Orry was too hungry to be interested. Before their next train left he needed a meal.
Railroad officials kept predicting that dining cars would soon be found on every train, but at present few had them. The alternatives were unappealing. You could buy something to eat from one of the hawkers who roved up and down the trains, or you could harden your nerves and settle for the bad fare served in grimy depot restaurants. In Baltimore, Orry was driven to the latter.
He held the dining-room door for Brett. She lifted her skirts, prepared to step over the threshold, and glanced at the counter and the tables adjoining. All the customers were men. One or two cast bold, almost insulting looks her way. Orry bristled. She shook her head.
“I’m really not hungry, Orry. I’ll sit out here on this bench and wait for you. I’ll be perfectly all right.”
He helped her get settled, then entered the restaurant. Boisterous conversation filled the place. He scanned the room, saw an empty table, walked to it, and seated himself.
He ordered smoked pork with mashed turnips and johnnycake on the side. Then he drew out the small Bible he carried almost everywhere these days; he liked to read the Song of Solomon because so many verses reminded him of Madeline. He hadn’t spoken to her since Ashton’s anniversary barbecue. Their conversation had been short, formal, and inconsequential; she seemed disconnected from reality, not herself. He had asked Justin whether she had been ill. Justin merely smiled.
Orry bent over the open Bible. A few minutes later the waiter slammed a plate down. He also managed to spill some of the coffee he was serving. Orry held his temper.
He tried to read while he ate. He couldn’t concentrate; the voices at the next table were too loud. Finally he leaned back in his chair, listening.
“That’s all the damn Southrons can talk about, a separate government.” The speaker was the oldest of a trio, a skinny fellow with white chin whiskers, “I say let ’em have it. Let ’em launch their leaky boat and sink with it.”
“Hell, no!” That was a man with a crooked nose, a loutish sort with the look of a commercial traveler. “Anyone who goes along with that or even suggests it should be hung high enough for everyone to see what a traitor looks like.”
“That’s right,” said the third man, a middle-aged nonentity.
Orry knew the three men were boors reinforcing each other’s opinions. He knew he should sit quietly, avoiding trouble. But the continuing irritations of the day moved him beyond the border of prudence. He put his coffee mug on the table with just enough of a thump to draw their attention.
“Come now, gentlemen,” he said with a faint, chilly smile. “You sound as if the establishment of a peaceful Southern government would threaten you personally. I’m not in favor of the idea either, but I don’t call it treason. Just foolishness. I must say it’s an understandable foolishness. The South has suffered insults and calumnies for a generation.”
If any others in the room agreed with him, they kept quiet. The fellow with the chin whiskers asked, “What state are you from, sir?”
“South Carolina.”
The man leaned on the big silver knob of his cane, smiling smugly. “Might have known.”
The man with the crooked nose blurted, “Read the Constitution—then you’ll know that secession is treason. You cotton-states boys have been threatening it for years, swinging it like a damn club! Well, go ahead—pull out. But if you do, Buck Buchanan has every right to clap you in irons. Or string you up.”
A man nearby said, “Amen.”
Then Orry noticed hostile faces at the counter. They belonged to a pair of burly types in soiled overalls. Switchmen, to judge from the thick hickory clubs lying in their laps.
“Hell”—one of the switchmen snickered—”Old Buck wouldn’t do that. He’s a doughface.”
The fellow who had said amen agreed. “Then get the Army to hang ’em,” someone else suggested. Outside, a station man began calling passengers for the Philadelphia express.
“Won’t work,” declared Crooked Nose. “The West Point crowd runs the Army. Most of them are Southrons. Comes to a choice between their oath to defend the country and setting up a government to protect their niggers, you know which way those boys would go.”
Orry’s temples pulsed visibly. Under his coat his shirt felt sodden with sweat. He laid his hand on his Bible.
“Watch what you’re saying, sir.”
“What’s that?” Crooked Nose jumped up, overturning his chair. The pair of switchmen, clubs in hand, moved behind him. Two patrons flung down money and rushed out.
Without hu
rrying, Orry stood up. When Crooked Nose saw Orry’s height and his blazing eyes, he retreated.
“I said you’d do well to watch your remarks about the Military Academy. I’m a graduate of that institution, and I fought in Mexico.” He inclined his head toward his empty left sleeve. “I fought for the whole country, Yankees included.”
“Is that right?” Crooked Nose snorted. “Well, sir, I still say you West Point princelings have a secessionist streak a mile wide.”
Shouts. Some applause. One of the switchmen peered over Crooked Nose’s shoulder. “Maybe this Southron gentleman is gonna miss his train. Maybe he’s gonna get a new coat in Baltimore. A coat of tar and feathers.”
Crooked Nose broke into a grin. Orry’s eyes flickered over the faces ringing him. Hostile, every one. His stomach hurt. The switchmen began to sidle toward him.
A sudden, ratchetlike sound from behind the counter brought them to a halt. By the door to the kitchen stood a nondescript man with a cocked shotgun.
“Anybody supplies any new coats around here, they’ll have to fit me with one, too.” He addressed Orry. “I’m a Baltimore man born and bred. I regret you’ve received this kind of. reception in our city.”
“Orry?”
The sound of Brett’s voice turned him toward the door. She rushed to him. Outside, the station official called for Philadelphia passengers to board.
“Orry, I don’t want to miss the train. Come on.”
Crooked Nose guffawed. “Gonna let little missy fight your battles? How come you’re hanging around with her, anyway? I thought you cotton-states boys fancied dark meat.”
Orry struck then, a single, driving, clumsy blow, straight to Crooked Nose’s stomach. One switchman kept him from falling, the other raised his club, but the man with the shotgun called a warning.
Crooked Nose, making choking sounds, sagged, shuffled backward, then tripped on his overturned chair. Orry’s fist was clenched so hard it looked as white as a boll of cotton. He whipped his eyes across the crowd.